


Arrows and Innuendo

by biscuitsy



Series: The London Excursion [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: And there's some sexual references but nothing actually sexy, M/M, McCree swears a bit?, No missions just fun around London, just fluff, unabashed fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 02:18:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13754190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biscuitsy/pseuds/biscuitsy
Summary: If there was one thing McCree prided himself on, it was his resilience to most everything life threw at him. He was a damage dealer, up close and personal with his enemies, and he could shrug off wounds as if they were mere annoyances rather than potentially life-threatening ailments. Similarly diseases were of little consequence; the flu that McCree contracted only a few days prior had been beaten into submission with a dosage of whiskey and sheer force of will, despite Angela comming to angrily tell him that “drown the flu” did not extend to liquor. In hindsight, the last biotic canister that Hanzo had cracked by McCree’s bedside probably had more to do with his recovery.That same resilience extended to his mental health. He rarely let the opinions of others get to him; they were no worse than he could think of himself in his darkest hours, after all. The insults would roll off him like water off a duck’s back, skin hardened over years of Blackwatch banter. What people said of, to or around him did not have much influence these days.And yet. And YET. McCree found himself hanging on every word Hanzo said, and Hanzo was of the mind to say nothing unless having something to say.





	Arrows and Innuendo

If there was one thing McCree prided himself on, it was his resilience to most everything life threw at him. He was a damage dealer, up close and personal with his enemies, and he could shrug off wounds as if they were mere annoyances rather than potentially life-threatening ailments. Similarly diseases were of little consequence; the flu that McCree contracted only a few days prior had been beaten into submission with a dosage of whiskey and sheer force of will, despite Angela comming to angrily tell him that “drown the flu” did not extend to liquor. In hindsight, the last biotic canister that Hanzo had cracked by McCree’s bedside probably had more to do with his recovery.

That same resilience extended to his mental health. He rarely let the opinions of others get to him; they were no worse than he could think of himself in his darkest hours, after all. The insults would roll off him like water off a duck’s back, skin hardened over years of Blackwatch banter. What people said of, to or around him did not have much influence these days.

And yet. And _yet_. McCree found himself hanging on every word Hanzo said, and Hanzo was usually of the mind to say nothing unless having something to say.

“I cannot believe you self-medicated with _whiskey_ ,” Hanzo remarked, caught somewhere between impress and disgust.

Lucky for McCree, he had learned the best ways to get Hanzo to talk. Step one: do something worthy of remark. Step two: tease endlessly. Step three: still working on that one. Step four: profit?

“Worked, didn’t it? Fit as a fiddle now! I can finally get some fresh air.” McCree drug in a large breath for emphasis, face turned skyward into London’s infinite drizzle. “Hate bein’ laid up, it’s the most boring thing in the world.”

“I thought being on the end of Doctor Ziegler’s lectures was the most boring thing in the world,” Hanzo remarked into his drink, sipping at the chai latte gently.

“Well, yeah--”

“And she would not lecture you if you simply did as she said.”

“Listen, I’m still _technically_ sick, what with the achin’, so don’t give me grief.”

“What happened to ‘fit as a fiddle’?”

How McCree found his foot in his mouth so often, he did not know. Something to do with the archer and his everlasting shit-eating grin, he figured. “Oh, look,” he deadpanned, finding an out to his immediate left. “Tower of London.”

London had a piece of history on every corner, an excellent escape from the confines of an argument he was about to lose. Hanzo rolled his eyes and looked up to the turrets, along the wards and to the bridge that led into the tower courtyard. The archer finished his drink in one last, elegant swoop of his neck and threw the cup into a conveniently placed bin. “You mentioned wanting to go here,” he mused, tone suggesting he was mulling the idea over, and McCree felt some childish excitement spark in his chest.

“I mean, yeah, sure. If you’re up for it,” the gunslinger shrugged, doing his best impression of a man who definitely did not want to see a gallery of medieval torture devices.

Hanzo was not buying it for an instant, eyes narrowing as McCree watched him see straight through his act. “Hmm. You are paying, then.”

McCree was weirdly happy to be down a sweet fifty pounds. The stone arches passed overhead as they entered the tower grounds side by side, walking past a tour group being lead by what McCree assumed was an oddly dressed armed guard.

“Yeoman warder,” Hanzo muttered at his side, delightfully in sync with McCree’s thought process. “Army veterans turned ceremonial guardians. The uniform goes back several centuries. And that,” the archer said, grabbing at McCree’s sleeve to point it at a gate sat over a gate looking out over the Thames. “Is Traitor’s Gate. Several famous individuals came through it on their way to the executioner.”

McCree leant on the wrought iron gate shielding tourists from the gate, head cocked to the side and pursed his lips. “Since when were you so well-read on English history, hmm?” He watched as Hanzo joined him on the fence, back leant against the metal, eyes trained on the word “traitor” on a sign that hung above him.

“I mentioned before I had several tutors growing up. It was part of my curriculum to learn the tactics ancient leaders took in controlling their populace, the reasoning behind their actions, the politics surrounding it… It was all practice for what my family hoped I’d become.”

The forlorn, slightly far away look that Hanzo’s eyes took on nearly broke McCree’s heart. “Well, you’re putting it to much better use, bein’ my personal guide.”

Hanzo huffed a sad little laugh, looking up the courtyard hill toward the statue that marked what used to be the executioner’s block. “Yes, it is better this way.”

For all the progress Hanzo had made in recent months, the moments when he remembered his failings still hit them both like the world’s quietest freight train.

“C’mon, let’s go look at the dungeons. I wanna see me some iron maidens.” Distraction served McCree well in the past (that, and copious amounts of whiskey), and it worked well in that moment- Hanzo smirked wryly, regarding McCree with amused resignation.

“You are strangely morbid, gunslinger.”

McCree deviated off the path by pure accident, and found himself in the armoury. Rows of ancient suits of armour lined the walls, seemingly enough to outfit an entire battalion, most of them mounted on towering wooden horses that reminded McCree of home.

“Hey, I got a history lesson for ya,” he crooned softly in the quiet room, leaning in to Hanzo’s right ear. “That bit of armour, right there.” He pointed to a more much extravagant suit, set apart from the layman’s knight armour by the detailing and jewels set into the metal. This suit had never seen battle, and was purely ceremonial.

“This must have belonged to a king,” Hanzo mused.

“Bingo. King Henry the Eighth. And check out what he was _packing_.” McCree made a show of pointing to the obscenely large codpiece poking out from the tasset. Hanzo said nothing.

“Codpieces were made like that to intimidate the enemy. Made him look, ah, _bigger_ than he actually was. Psychological warfare.” McCree was far too amused at the sight of Hanzo staring so intently at the cock pocket of an English king’s suit of armour and burned the image in his brain for future laughs.

“Hmm. Psychological warfare by… broadcasting to the enemy how big his penis was, regardless of its actual size?”

“Basically, yeah. Bigged himself up, looked impressive.”

“Hmm.” The cowboy watched Hanzo drag his eyes over the gaudy armour once, twice, then over to _McCree_ and down to his crotch--

“So _that’s_ why you wear that belt buckle.”

McCree choked on nothing but air. His eyes went wide and dry and he watched Hanzo saunter away, smirking over his shoulder, while McCree stood stock still in a state he did not often find himself- speechless.

_Hoo, boy._

Biting his bottom lip to stifle the smirk creasing his face, McCree followed.

\-------

The next day brought the pair to a packed street on a Saturday in one of the world’s busiest cities- what McCree assumed was Hanzo’s worst nightmare. Only the promise of visiting the import shop Hanzo had spied weeks ago brought them here. Tucked to the side of the street was a small set of double doors leading to an escalator, the smell of _takoyaki_ spilling out onto the English street. Hanzo followed it immediately- McCree swore Hanzo was walking nose first through the doors- and blazed the trail up the escalators. Banners overheard were written in what the cowboy recognised as _hiragana_ , though he’d be damned if he could read it. The room opened onto several aisles of nothing but ceramics- cutlery and crockery and all the homeware any Japanese person would need. 

Hanzo looked like Christmas had come early.

Feeling somewhat like a father who was happy to watch his child flit happily around a toy store, McCree trailed behind Hanzo as he went from aisle to aisle, pointing out the various foods he and Genji had enjoyed as children, naming the different ceramics and what they were used for, and conversing in Japanese with the store attendants. It was easy to forget that English wasn’t the archer’s first language, what with how proficiently his tongue curled around the language, and despite having no idea what he was saying the gunslinger found himself entranced by the conversation.

When they left an hour later, it was with several bags of Japanese sweets.

“I knew you had a sweet tooth, but god _damn_.” Hanzo was already snacking on a tiny box of chocolates, a milky brown on the bottom and pink on the top, shaped like little cones. The bag in his hand had several more boxes of the same candy, half of it a gift for Genji. “That’s a helluva lot of sugar, darlin’.”

“It balances out the bitterness in my dark, cold soul.” Hanzo said it with such deadpan McCree did not register it as a joke for a beat. He barked a laugh loud enough to scare several passersby.

“Oh, is that how it works? So all the coffee and cigars I have balance out my sweet disposition?”

“And compromises your immune system, leaving you vulnerable to infection. Like the flu.” Hanzo looked pointedly at McCree, and the gunslinger shrunk slightly under the glare. “You could do with more sugar in your diet.”

“Well, maybe,” McCree hazarded, sidling up to Hanzo as they walked back along the Thames. “You could let me in on your sugar stash. ‘N don’t try denying it, I’ve seen those cakes you smuggle in when you think no one’s lookin’.”

Hanzo stopped. The crowd had thinned out this far down the banks of the Thames, and it dawned on McCree how weirdly silent the bustling city of London had become in the space of mere minutes. He turned, taking one of the sweets from the box and twirling it between his fingertips. Holding it between his thumb and index finger Hanzo pushed the treat slowly, _sinfully_ , past his lips, wiping the broadside of his thumb over the soft flesh of his mouth with a dangerous, dark, hazy look to his eyes, trained straight on McCree’s.

McCree’s mouth was very suddenly devoid of any moisture, and he gulped.

“You can have _this_ ,” Hanzo rasped, taking another sweet and holding it out for the gunslinger.

 _No way._ There was no way Hanzo was going to hand feed him chocolate. Pursing his lips into a minxish, playful, ‘I-know-your-game’ expression, McCree leant in to take it--

\--and Hanzo deftly flicked it into the air, as if it were a coin. With expert precision McCree caught it on his tongue and made sure Hanzo could see the way he rolled it between his tongue and teeth before _sucking_ on the small chocolate.

Because two could play at this game. 

The cowboy saw the way Hanzo reorientated himself, tilted his mouth, turned away from him so the gunslinger would not see him begin to bite his lip.

_Heh, got ‘im._

“You can eat my cakes when Hell freezes over, gunslinger.” Hanzo said into his chocolate, walking away as if McCree hadn’t just made him squirm in what the cowboy was sure was delight.

“Aw, c’mon.”

\----

For their last day in London, Hanzo suggested they spend it indoors. They had yet to pack for their return to Gibraltar. More prudently, the weather was what McCree described as ‘god awful’.

“Rain’s comin’ down hard enough to leave bruises,” he mused, perched on the windowsill as he ran a cloth down Peacekeeper’s barrel. Everytime he looked down her sight McCree felt anxious, eager to practice with her, unwilling to put bullets through the centuries old wall into the unsuspecting neighbour’s room. “Par for the damn course with this place.”

“There is an invention called the umbrella, McCree. It would solve all your problems.” Hanzo had already packed and was pointedly staring at the cowboy’s clothes scattered on his bed as he took apart Stormbow for maintenance. “Are you ever going to pack?”

“...Kinda feels weird to be leaving.” Satisfied that Peacekeeper was clean enough to eat off of, McCree leaned into the windowpane and stared wistfully into the night. “Kinda got used to being here. Keep thinkin’ that if I don’t pack, I won’t have to leave.”

“Only yesterday you were complaining about the weather and listing off all the internal organs you would trade for one day of sun.” 

McCree shrugged. He was used to the balmy Gibraltar weather and missed the Santa Fe sun desperately, but the weather in the British Isles had some melancholic tranquility to it. It soothed McCree, relaxed in. Lulled him to sleep when his stupid-AM thoughts got the better of him. He wondered if Hanzo felt the same.

“It’s grown on me,” is what said instead. “Just wish I could get a break from the damn weather so I could practice with Peacekeeper. She’s gettin’ antsy.” As natural as breathing she spun around McCree’s fingers, all fluidity and grace, before McCree slid her into the holster at his hip.

“Try not to get too excited, but indoor shooting ranges exist McCree.” Hanzo leaned into his field of view, sliding Stormbow into her guitar-shaped case. “Come. I know a place.”

“Wait-- since when?” McCree jumped from the windowsill as if it had insulted him, throwing on his coat as Hanzo made for the door.

“Since the assassination the other day. It is not far from Tower Bridge.”

“‘S late, though. Probably closed by now.”

Hanzo stopped, smiled, rolled his eyes far enough that McCree wondered if they would leave his head, and produced a roll of lock picks from a pocket. McCree lit up like a tree in December.

“I forgot, we’re a ninja and an outlaw. God, we’re awesome.”

The sound of laughter Hanzo made burned warmly in McCree’s chest, and he followed it out of the apartment and into the night.

The shooting range stood atop a gym complex, a multi-story building that housed every conceivable kind of exercise equipment. McCree followed Hanzo up the side, mirroring his footholds and taking the gloved hand the archer offered him when presented with a particularly difficult leap. His legs burned by the time they reached the top- a penthouse-turned-shooting range, all glass walls stretched down the length of the roof with simple paper targets hung at the other end. Some old fashioned lockpicking had the door open in mere moments. McCree bowed at the waist, one arm outstretched into the room.

“After you.”

The gunslinger didn’t see Hanzo’s expression, but he could hear satisfaction in the little “hmm” the archer made. The lights flickered on the moment Hanzo stepped inside and McCree whistled lowly.

“Not bad, not bad,” he conceded, pulling his serape back to rest his hand on Peacekeeper’s grip. Hanzo was already at work with Stormbow, pulling her together with all the care he would show a priceless artifact. When she was ready Hanzo placed her on a rest, stepping back.

“After you,” Hanzo repeated, leaned back against the wall with arms folded. _Impress me_ , his stance said, words unspoken. He popped the cap on his gourd and took a sip of sake. McCree rolled his shoulders.

“Guess what time it is.” It was worth it just to see the ‘urgh’ that wrenched itself from Hanzo’s lips.

“Eleven at night. Now shoot.”

“You _know_ what time it is.”

McCree watched Hanzo sag. Draw in a long, despairing breath. Deadpan, with just a trace amount of amusement-

“It’s high noon.”

“ _It’s hiiigh noon!_ ”

With a flourish and a fan of the hammer, McCree whipped Peacekeeper from her holster and she spoke six times. A bullet went through each of the paper targets, straight between the eyes, almost mathematically precise. McCree shuddered, slumped in place, his eyes fluttering in delight.

“O-o-o-oh yeah, that’s the stuff.”

“Lewd.”

McCree rounded on Hanzo, his hip cocked to the side Peacekeeper now rested on and framed his belt buckle with his hands. “Hey now, you’re the one with your mind in the gutter.” He saw Hanzo’s eyes flick to the buckle, filling with mirth, and McCree guessed he was remembering the codpiece in the armoury. “That being said, care to try and stick your arrows in my holes?”

Hanzo made another little ‘urgh’ sound. “I am not nearly drunk enough for this childishness.” He drunk deeper of his gourd before reaching for Stormbow. He nocked one arrow and held three others between his fingers, beautifully precise, and lined up his first shot. The arrows slid through the holes McCree had made with a precision machines could only dream of.

McCree often thought watching Hanzo practice was like watching poetry in motion, or perhaps the world’s deadliest, most beautiful dance. The deftness and dexterity with which he took his shots was enthralling, the silence in which the arrows sunk into their target unsettling, the stance Hanzo took in the immediate aftermath powerful and regal and downright enthralling. His muscles pulled taut and slackened in an instant, his movements rippling down his entire arm all the way to his hands. McCree wondered how those same hands would curl themselves reverently around McCree’s--

“Gun.”

Hanzo started, setting Stormbow back on her rest. “Beg pardon?”

“You’re pretty handy with a bow, but… how ‘bout a gun?” Drawing Peacekeeper with a trademark flourish McCree held the grip to Hanzo, pleased at the delicacy the archer took the weapon with. “She won’t bite. Go on.”

Hanzo looked from Peacekeeper to McCree, back again, and slid the gun into place with practiced ease. _Yakuza_. Of course he knew how to shoot a gun. But watching Hanzo handle _McCree’s_ weapon with such ease sent a strange thrill straight to his stomach. It felt like several thousand butterflies jumping around in a mosh pit. He watched Hanzo run a checklist- loaded her barrels individually, held the gun steady with both hands, lined up his shot- 

And sent a bullet into the crotch of every paper target.

“ _Hooo_ boy.” Watching Hanzo shoot several paper men in their paper dicks should not have excited McCree as much as it did. Hanzo slid Peacekeeper back into the cowboy’s grasp, looking incredibly pleased with himself. 

“Anything else?” The haughty, better-than-you side of Hanzo had come out to play, and play McCree would.

“Yeah. Can you do _this_?”

Peacekeeper spun between his fingers again, up and over and around, fast enough that Hanzo seemed to have trouble keeping up. Hanzo took her grip again, double checked her barrels to make sure he didn’t accidentally shoot his face off. He twirled the gun slowly, once, twice, and on the third loop Hanzo set Peacekeeper flying into the bridge of his own nose.

“Haha, shit!” McCree laughed before he could hope to stop himself, catching Peacekeeper as she fell. Hanzo rubbed at his nose, mirth in his eyes again. “Y’alright?”

“I’ll probably survive, yes. Come here.”

McCree went to him. Plucking Stormbow from her rest, Hanzo checked the bow over once, smoothed out an old scuff mark on the front, and McCree cowered slightly as Hanzo presented her to him.

“She won’t bite.”

Extending both hands to cradle the bow like it were a newborn child, McCree took Stormbow. He knew the detail almost intimately, having almost never seen Hanzo without it, but touching it was an experience- the texture differed over the entire length of the weapon, from the smooth, marble patterned front to the matte gold-coloured tips and the fabric wrapped around either end. McCree’s metal hand found the handle and he tested the balance, finding it comfortably weighty.

“...She’s nice,” McCree said stupidly, wrought speechless by Hanzo once again. “Real nice.”

“She is. There is no other bow like her in the world. And it would cost the bounty on your head to replace her, cowboy.” Hanzo’s tone brooked some warning, but the smile on his face said otherwise. “Now, let’s begin.”

McCree startled. “Uh--”

“Don’t grip her so hard, it will make the draw more taxing on you. Take your hand, make an L-shape with your thumb and fingers.”

Fumbling to catch up, McCree hung on every word Hanzo said and followed it to the letter.

“Turn it slightly, so it makes a V-shape. Curl your fingers in-- there. That’s how you should hold her. Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart, sideways, facing towards the target.”

Hanzo circled the cowboy, a vulture waiting to catch McCree out. _Catch me out on what?_ McCree thought, taking up his stance.

“Take your three middle fingers and curl them below the nock point. Look ahead, and aim. Try to line the string with the riser of the bow. Shoulders back, but not too far. Do not let go of the string just yet. Go.”

Hanzo’s circling stopped, ready to strike. McCree pulled back Stormbow to full draw, and it suddenly made complete sense why Hanzo was built the way he was. His muscles cried under the stress of holding the bowstring, elbow wobbling slightly in the air. 

“Terrible,” Hanzo deigned, in that fond way McCree had only noticed him use in very recent days. “Like this--”

And suddenly Hanzo was touching him. One hand on his metal arm, holding it straight until the imaginary arrow was not pointed at the floor, the other hand holding his elbow. Bodies close enough that McCree could feel the heat of Hanzo’s torso.

“Middle finger to the corner of your mouth. Elbow up. Do not aim for more than a few seconds, you will start shaking with the effort. And…”

McCree’s head suddenly felt naked- Hanzo had removed his stetson. “No hats. It will obscure your shots and shorten your draw.”

McCree came down from the draw, muscles screaming for relief. “God damn, that’s a lot to remember.”

“It is. Do not worry about getting it all correct in one movement, that will take years of practice.” The cowboy watched Hanzo’s thumbs run over the brim of his hat, smoothing out scuffs and testing the fabric. “Instead, run a checklist. One after the other.”

And then Hanzo put the damn stetson on his own head. Hanzo was wearing his hat, and he wore it fantastically well. McCree thought he might bite his lip hard enough to chew right through it.

“You will get this back when you hit either a red or yellow ring.”

“You’re shittin’ me.” Hanzo threaded an arrow through the space between riser and string, nocked it and stepped back. 

“I am not shitting you. Try.” Hanzo retook his space against the wall and folded his arms. Watching, waiting, and biting his god damn lip.

McCree inhaled, exhaled through his mouth. V-shaped grip, feet apart, sideways to the target, facing straight ahead. Centered the string in his sight, curled his fingers below the nock point. Pulled, shoulders back, but not too far, arm straight. And released.

The string whipped past his face, closer than he thought possible. Something caught across his shoulder, and the arrow flew a solid three feet before splatting against the floor, rolling away into the corner pathetically.

“Astounding,” Hanzo said, setting the stetson more squarely on his head.

“God damn it all.” McCree felts his cheeks burn with embarrassment, feeling like a rookie in Blackwatch training all over again. Shame that still burned years later. 

“Your form was perfect.” Hanzo’s words were hurried, quick to smooth over his assessment. “The string just caught on your serape and threw your arrow off.”

 _Oh. Well._ “Heh, I bought this thing to look cool, and this is what it gets me. Might as well try this on, too.” Swinging the serape over and off his shoulder, McCree tossed it to his would-be archery teacher. Hanzo wore it like a winter scarf, looping it around his neck, and-- _Did he just nuzzle the fabric?_

“Try again. Don’t simply let go of the string- your fingers could never move out of the way fast enough. Relax your fingers and let the string push its way past, instead.” Hanzo nocked one last arrow for him, hands ghosting tantalisingly close to McCree’s. “Tell me your checklist.”

Inhale, exhale. “Right. V-shape grip on the handle bit--”

“Riser.”

 

“Riser. Feet shoulder width apart. Sideways. Looking straight ahead. Aim. String in the center of the bow. Three fingers below the nocking point. Pull back. Stand straight.”

McCree lined up the bullseye with the arrow. Daring to flick his eyes over to Hanzo, McCree saw him tilt his head forward. Eyes partially obscured by the brim of his own stetson, held hostage. Lips parted ever so slightly in anticipation of a decent shot. Bringing the corner of his serape up to his nose to inhale the scent of gunpowder and metal and nights spent in good company in a London pub--

“Release.”

The arrow flew, slicing the air as it was designed to do, and struck the dead center of the target.

McCree set Stormbow down on her rest and strode over to Hanzo in three long, powerful strides, taking him all the way into the archer’s personal bubble. He stopped, gave Hanzo all the time he could need to back out, let himself smile when Hanzo did nothing of the sort.

“You look infuriatingly good in my hat.” McCree found his tongue heavy, voice thick, eyes flicking between the archer’s eyes and mouth and anywhere except the damn hat. Hanzo brought a hand to the brim and slipped it out, arm arcing over to replace it on McCree’s head. His hand stayed there, disappearing at the edges of McCree’s peripheral vision, oak eyes trained solely on his target. He felt Hanzo line up his shot, trail his hand down to the back of McCree’s head and pull him down, taking McCree’s lips with his own.

McCree’s eyes fluttered shut. In the gunslinger’s head, fireworks went off. It was the Fourth of God Damn July. The crescendo of Ode to Joy played somewhere in the cacophony, an imaginary audience clapping for him because he climbed the mountain that was courting Hanzo Shimada, and Hanzo Shimada kissed him _first_. He tasted of the sake he brought with him, of the hochija McCree had bought for him a few weeks ago, and of hard work paying off splendidly. McCree felt like a god.

Hanzo drew back, hands curling into the serape and bringing it around McCree’s shoulders. “Heh. I have it on good authority that kissing on the first date is ‘trashy’.”

“Oh, darlin’. This ain’t the first date. We went to that nice little service at the church, remember?” McCree pressed his forehead to Hanzo’s, remembering how genuine the archer’s attempt to comfort him was, wondering if the contact would share the memory between them.

“Ah, yes. And our second date was on the London Eye.”

“And you decided you wanted to go swimming, instead.”

Hanzo thwapped his arm. “You were sick for our third date. Spent it in the company of some woman, instead. Such a cad.”

“I am the god damn worst,” McCree agreed. His chin laid easily on Hanzo’s head, felt the archer press his temple to the curves of the gunslinger’s neck, and his hips started to sway gently of their own accord.

“I fear I have you beat there, gunslinger.”

“Bullshit.” Hanzo swayed with him, dancing to the tune only McCree could hear in his head. It was aimless, slow, barely enough movement to even be called a dance, but McCree hoped it soothed him.

“I… I can’t promise this will be easy for you, McCree. I was alone for ten years, and even before that emotions were the one thing the Shimada-gumi did not deal in. I was born into a family where any display of emotion could very well kill you. It’s what killed Genji-- when I--”

“Don’t.” McCree turned his face down, pressed his lips to Hanzo’s temple, breathed into the strands of his hair. His hands drifted down to rest over Hanzo’s hip bones, guiding him and their dance out the door and into the rain. 

“You _both_ suffered for your family’s mistakes. Genji found Zenyatta, he worked through his shit, and he’s the most free he’s ever been in his damn life. The only one still sufferin’ is you.” The rain was still heavy, a dim but constant noise behind them, obscuring the many lights of London city. It dripped off McCree’s stetson and onto their shoulders, barely shielded by the shared serape.

“I’m not the paragon of zen that is, uh, Zenyatta, but I wanna help you. Best I can, cross my heart. And I ain’t saying we gotta get a mortgage and a dog and two kids. We can take this as slowly as we damn well need to.”

He turned them sideways, turning his gaze to London’s skyline, coaxing Hanzo to look at the dismal, grey, strangely charming city that had brought them together against all odds.

“We got all the time in the world, darlin’.”

And McCree believed it. More fervently than he had ever believed in anything before- Deadlock, Blackwatch, even the damn Recall. In a world trying to tear itself apart, they could carve out a life for themselves together if they just tried hard enough.

Hanzo buried his face in McCree’s collarbone. “You are comically idealistic, McCree.”

“My name, Hanzo.”

They danced into the rain for a moment longer, Hanzo settling his temple against McCree’s shoulder. Cold rain water ran into his hair, trailed across his scalp and down into the crook of his neck.

“Jesse.”

The name felt to McCree like the first rays of sun after a storm. He looked out over the London skyline once more, soaked to the bone under London’s precipitation, and thanked every stupid, reckless, _brilliant_ decision that led him to this eternally wet city.

\----

Overwatch’s influence had grown over the last few weeks of the pair’s tenancy, possessing enough clout to rent a space at London City Airport for the Orca to land. McCree stood on the tarmac, Hanzo comfortably close by, and watched Lena maneuver the ship onto the airstrip.

“Move it or lose it, chucks! Bloody Customs has me running late, and Winston’s got a ton of stuff for us when we get back.” Her voice chirped over the comm as the hatch door opened, the familiar interior welcoming and beckoning McCree inside. Lifting his and Hanzo’s luggage, McCree took the initiative to ascend first. The suitcases were stowed under the sofas in the corners, Stormbow’s case getting special treatment- she was buckled into one of the seats against the walls.

When McCree was finished, he turned back to Hanzo, finding him staring out into the city and the endless drizzle that accompanied it.

“Think you’ll miss it?”

“Hmm.” Hanzo pursed his lips, and turned to McCree. “I believe I’m taking the best part of this London excursion back to base with me.” Stared pointedly at the gunslinger, expression even. Happy.

McCree’s heart grew several sizes. He brought the brim of his hat down, hiding his face. “Yeah, those Japanese sweets we got are awesome.”

Hanzo laughed, the best sound McCree had ever heard.

Lena got their bird airborne with a gentle ease. She passed over the city once, tsk’ing fondly as she waved goodbye to her home turf. McCree leaned out the window, watching the city fly by underneath him- King’s Row, the cathedral, the now under construction London Eye and the Shard, Tower Bridge and a single glass room on top of a sports emporium. For how much grief it had given him, McCree would miss London.

He felt the weight of a dozing Hanzo on his shoulder and curled an arm around him protectively. Outside, the clouds parted and in a last ‘screw you’ to McCree, sun beamed onto the city of London, glittering off the waters of the Thames.

 _That is such bullshit!_ McCree huffed to himself. Lena would call it ‘Sod’s Law’.

That being said, all the best things had come to him in the rain. He could stand to get used to it.

**Author's Note:**

> WOW can't believe I finished it! Hope you enjoyed this little series! It was nice to get back into fic writing again, even if I'm rusty as all hell.
> 
> This was kind of a love letter to both McH and Overwatch, which has given me great joy recently, and also to London itself- I moved down here for work almost half a year ago and I've loved every moment. Everywhere the boys went is a place I go most weekends, for more benign reasons of course- even the import shop is real! It's the Japan Center on Shaftsbury Ave, if you're ever in the market for tasty treats and ceramics. I hope if any of you visit London you'll enjoy it as much as I do, and that the weather isn't as bad as it was in this series!


End file.
